162 The Catskill Fairies.

green tinge of a cold twilight. He was thinking of his fairy
visitors, and wishing that they would return.

The Lady of the Cascade was in her winter prison—one knew
exactly where to find her; but roguish Nip and busy Puff, with
her endless spinning, were gone.

“ The Fairies came to see me last night—because I was lone-
ly, I guess,” said the boy, gravely. “ They told me, oh, such
wonderful things, if I could remember ’em all.”

Grandfather looked at Job over the rim of his spectacles.
To tell the truth, he was afraid that his grandson was a little
cracked.

“There was Nip from the Berkshire Hills, and the Indian
Fairies who live here still—they told about the witch child,
and—”

“ Pooh !” interrupted Grandfather, looking down again at the
open pocket-book where lay the money he had brought. “ You
were asleep and dreamed it.”

Job was so astonished and indignant that he could not utter
one word. What did Grandfather know about it? Perhaps the
shell and the cat had not talked! He would be saying that
next.

After Grandfather had gone to bed, our hero stole into the
kitchen to see if there were an elfish company gathered around
the hearth. No, the fire blazed and flickered, and had the chim-
ney all to itself. That was all.

“You know about the Fairies, don’t you?” Job whispered to
the old clock.

“ Tick, tick, tick!” said the clock, which might mean any-
thing, or just nothing at all.